


The Price of Living

by Elycien



Category: Hyper Light Drifter
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 04:30:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6738307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elycien/pseuds/Elycien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's alive. He didn't expect that to be so difficult to accept.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Price of Living

**Author's Note:**

> This is very self-indulgent!! AU where the Drifter and the Guardian both survive through the ending, because I'm a huge sap and want them to be together forever
> 
> (not sure if this is ship-fic or not, please interpret their relationship however you feel like)

The first time Guardian sees his face, they fear it might be their last. Even unconscious, Drifter’s face is twisted in pain, his body curled tightly in on himself as if he’s bracing himself against something. His clothes are torn and so is his skin; some of those scars are of a sort Guardian already knows, but Drifter’s body has been ravaged by something other than his illness and it’s quite possibly killing him.

Guardian looks up, over their shoulder, but the dog that led them here is already gone.

Gently, worried about causing Drifter further pain, they scoop him up in their arms and he’s even lighter than they remember, like there’s barely anything left of him after whatever he faced in that underground chamber. Perhaps it’s this thought that make Guardian’s arms tighten reflexively around him as they carry him up to the surface. He’s cold and he doesn’t respond to the touch, but he is breathing, and right now that is all the encouragement Guardian needs.

They carry him through town just as they did before; this time they feel the eyes of the townspeople watching them not in suspicion, but in worry. These people know Drifter now. They might not understand him or the significance of the earthquake that rocked the town not long before, as Guardian is starting to (has their breathing _ever_ been this easy since they came here?) but their concern for him is as real as for any of their own.

Drifter doesn’t make a sound, even as Guardian dresses his wounds and gives him a medpack injection. He lies still and silent in Guardian’s bed until late in the night, when Guardian is awoken from their fitful sleep by a wild, spine-chilling cry. Drifter’s eyes are open wide, wide, and he’s thrashing with such violence that the bedframe is shaking. Guardian stumbles to their feet and hurries to his side. There is not much they can do; Drifter is not really conscious, trapped in the throes of some nightmarish vision. But they rest their hand gently on top of Drifter’s head, over his helmet, and murmur gently to him. It brings back a sharp pang of memory, late nights spent calming a child in pain. 

They are not sure if Drifter is responding to it or if his fit is subsiding on its own. Nevertheless, he gradually grows still, his cries dying down to faint whimpers and then exhausted panting. For a moment Guardian thinks he's actually seeing them, his eyes fixed on theirs, but then his eyes slip closed and the brief moment of consciousness fades. 

Guardian stays beside him for the rest of the night. 

Perhaps it's their imagination but Drifter looks more peaceful in the morning, his face no longer so tense with pain. Guardian watches him a moment as his chest quietly rises and falls. Drifter’s young and in sleep he looks younger still, but his face is lined with exhaustion and the scars of his illness. Briefly Guardian wonders how long he’s been afflicted, how much younger he was when he started wandering. At least they had a chance at a real life, however brief, before the illness stole it from them.

And perhaps they have a chance again. Their chest has not ached once this morning, and they haven’t been able to breathe this deeply in… maybe years. But this, somehow, is too big to contemplate just yet, so instead Guardian gets to their feet and heads across the room to prepare a meal for the morning. There isn’t much left in the house; for a time, Guardian hadn’t always been expecting to return.

Behind them there’s a weak cough, and then a quiet, hoarse voice. “...Am I dead?”

Guardian turns to see Drifter watching them. He’s attempted to pull up the remains of his cape to cover his face again, which is only partially successful. “I don’t think so,” they say mildly. “You are in my home. Safe.”

There’s a deep shaky breath, and Drifter closes his eyes. “I thought I was dead,” he murmurs, barely audible. There’s not really anything to be said to that. Quietly Guardian returns to preparing the meal, until Drifter speaks again: “How did you find me?”

Guardian hesitates. They’ve never really been sure how far their and Drifter’s shared experiences went, beyond the illness. “There was a dog…”

Fortunately, there is no need to explain further. Drifter looks surprised, but he nods. “I… I see.” He hesitates a moment. “I’m glad you’re still alive. I thought it would be worthwhile, if at least you…”

He trails off, looking pained. “Drifter,” Guardian says gently, “what happened? I felt the ground shake yesterday, before the dog led me to you.”

For a moment they almost regret asking. Drifter tenses, a guarded look on his face, and looks away from them. “I destroyed it,” he says. “I thought it would destroy me too. The Immortal Cell… Judgment.” His eyes narrow, the same shrewd look Guardian’s seen on his face when pinpointing the modules on a map or assessing a dangerous situation. “You saw Judgment too, didn’t you? So you know.”

“I knew some.” They’d both had the visions to guide them - the dog, the Cell, Judgment - but Drifter had been driven, hunting down every last record and scrap of information he could find. Small wonder he’d looked so weary every time Guardian laid eyes on him.

“It tried to stop me,” Drifter says. His sentences are short, clipped, in the manner of one not used to speaking this much at a time. “I’m… still not entirely sure how it happened. It- it _hurt,_ just being close to it. And it was alive, it knew who I was and what I’d come to do. I…didn't quite expect that.” There’s a pause, and Drifter’s eyes seem to be looking past Guardian into a distance they can’t even fathom. From the look on Drifter’s face, they’re not sure they would want to. Then he closes his eyes and shakes his head vehemently, almost a shiver. “It doesn’t matter. It’s done. And I--” He breaks off, coughing violently with his hand pressed to his face.

Guardian starts forward in alarm. They had assumed, with their own lack of symptoms, that Drifter had also been healed. They can see now that they were wrong. Standing helplessly at Drifter’s side, they wait until the coughing fit subsides. There are flecks of blood on Drifter’s palm. Their heart sinks. 

Drifter sees them looking. “There is no panacea,” he says bitterly. “There never was.” He coughs again, less violently this time. “It was doing everything in its power to kill me. Destroying it wasn’t enough - the damage is done.”

“I'm sorry,” Guardian says quietly. Their jaw is clenched. Carefully they reach out to rest a hand on Drifter’s shoulder. He doesn't react. “You deserved better than that, after all you’ve done.”

Drifter’s silent for a few minutes, staring unseeing down at the floor. “I thought I was dying,” he says simply. “And I was okay with that. I thought - at least - I’d be able to finally _rest._ ” His voice cracks on the last word, and Guardian squeezes his shoulder.

“Then rest,” they say gently. “Take as long as you need. You don’t have to be alone.” Their mouth twists in a wry half-smile beneath their helmet. “I owe you that much and more.”

Drifter is shaking now, and after a moment he turns away, hiding his face. Guardian backs away, giving him space. By the time Guardian has finished preparing their meal, Drifter’s fallen asleep again, his face slightly damp and his breath still shuddering faintly. Guardian lets him be, leaving the food for him beside the bed for when he wakes up.

Over the next few days, Drifter is not awake much. Whatever happened underground took a heavy toll on his body, and he is terribly weak. It frustrates him; Guardian can see it in his eyes when he tries and fails to stand, or when his hand shakes as he reaches for something. He’s in pain, and while he hides it well, he still whimpers in his sleep. 

Neither of them see the dog again. Guardian’s visions, which had been growing more intense and more frequent, are gone entirely. Drifter, however, continues to be haunted by the spectre of Judgment. He wakes Guardian screaming in the night, or thrashing in the grip of sudden crippling pain. Whether they’re visions or nightmares neither of them know; Guardian suspects the latter, and hopes it for their friend’s sake. Judgment’s corruption is gone. It has to be, after everything Drifter has sacrificed.

But in spite of everything, Drifter isn’t alone. The first week, as he lies in bed recovering, Guardian meets a steady stream of visitors at the door. Some are merely curious, others bring gifts or well-wishes. They have to turn away a family of stoats from the east who come to see Drifter while he’s sleeping, but later a bird from the north shows up with a young chick, wanting to thank the slayer of the Hierophant in person. Drifter sits up in bed to talk to them, and when the chick climbs up curiously to investigate his smooth, featherless blue skin, Drifter throws back his head and laughs for the first time. It’s hoarse, verging on a cough, but hearing it is like a weight off Guardian’s shoulders.

And to the surprise of both of them, Drifter improves. Little more than a week after he first wakes up, he’s still coughing, but there’s no blood, and his nightmares have lessened. He takes his first steps out of bed a few days after that, leaning on Guardian for support. It’s slow and painful, but a victory nonetheless. Afterward he rests, sitting up in bed, and they exchange stories of their travels. The words seem to come more easily to Drifter now, and he’s more at ease than Guardian has ever seen him. For the first time they begin to hope for him, that perhaps there is something left for him after all.

Three days later, Drifter is gone. Guardian wakes to find an empty bed, neatly made, and Drifter’s equipment gone.

They wonder if they should even follow him. Wandering seems to be in Drifter’s nature; it’s all he knows. He probably does not want to be followed. But they cannot help but worry all the same. Drifter had attempted to practice with his weapons the day before, and he could barely hold his sword.

In the end, Drifter does not even make it out of the gate. One of the townspeople comes running to fetch them, breathless and worried, gabbling out that Drifter has collapsed on the edge of town. They follow her to the south gate, where Drifter is sprawled on the ground and struggling to rise, supporting himself on his sword. Without a word Guardian gets an arm around his waist and helps him to his feet. Drifter shoots them a look filled with mingled shame and helpless anger.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters.

“Don’t be,” Guardian says simply.

Drifter limps back to the house leaning heavily on Guardian’s shoulder, his sword dragging in the dirt. He shakes his head when Guardian tries to help him to bed, sinking instead into a chair. Then he pounds his fist furiously against the table and buries his head in his hands. 

“I’m tired of burdening you,” Drifter says finally, his voice muffled against his palms.

Guardian sits opposite him, leaning forward. “You saved my life, and moreover, you are my friend,” they tell him softly. “You are not a burden.”

Drifter clenches his fists and leans back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. “I never really considered what I would do after it was _over,_ ” he says. “My search was everything. What else do I _have?_ I can’t fight. I can barely walk. I might not be dying but I’m not getting much better--”

Guardian reaches across the table and lays their fingers gently across his wrist. Drifter looks at them, startled. “You have a home,” they say firmly. “You have this. And if you decide to leave, if you want to roam again, I won’t stop you - but know that you no longer have to do this alone.”

Drifter blinks, his eyes oddly bright. “I don’t want you to feel in my debt,” he says.

“I don’t,” Guardian says. “I opened my home to you because I wanted to, Drifter. Because I know what it’s like when you feel you can’t stop running.”

“I--” Drifter didn’t quite seem able to speak. He tears his eyes away from Guardian’s and hunches his shoulders, burying his face in his arms. Quietly Guardian moves around the table and puts their arm around him, and Drifter silently leans in against their chest, trembling hard.

“I’d made my peace with dying,” Drifter mutters, after a long silence. “But I - I don’t think I know much about _living._ ”

“Neither do I, my friend,” Guardian responds quietly. There’s a part of them that died with their family. Deep down, they know that was the day they stopped expecting to survive. But this, now - with Drifter nestled against their side, sharing their home… there’s a fullness to it that they could never have anticipated. “But I do know it is a task best shared.”


End file.
